


Five Things Fernando Torres Has Tried Desperately to Repress

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:45:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>as the title says, five things F. Torres has tried desperately to repress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things Fernando Torres Has Tried Desperately to Repress

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj.

1\. He used to think about playing for Real Madrid. Not all very often - mostly, he imagined winning everything with Atletico every season, every time - he’d lie awake in bed at night, his imagination gleaming silver. But sometimes, it was easier to think of himself in white, like an angel in the Bible his abuela bought for him, for his sixth birthday. Sometimes, when he played in the back yard by himself, that was what he thought of.

He never told anyone, and when he got into the academy, he shut down the traitorous part of his mind that didn’t want to work, that didn’t want to carry a team, that wanted easy and endless glory.

 

2\. When Aladdin came out, Fernando’s mom took him to go see it. He was at that awkward age - well, the beginning of an awkward age that’s lasted the rest of his life - where he wanted to go but also didn’t. He was worried someone would see him and think, well, something bad, Fernando didn’t know. His mom, oblivious probably by choice, took him anyway.

He knew he was supposed to like the princess, with her exaggerated curves, long hair, naked stomach. He didn’t. He didn’t care about the princess. He liked Aladdin, the way he made jokes, the way no one told him what to do. He liked that Aladdin had a pet monkey, and a flying carpet. But mostly he liked Aladdin’s bare arms and his flat stomach, the tilt of his head and his smile. It made him blush in the dark, next to his mom, his fingers itchy from eating too much popcorn. It made him not want to look away.

At school, Fernando didn’t tell people he had gone to see the movie. He drew a picture of Aladdin rubbing the lamp on the corner of his math homework and then colored dark lines over it, in pencil, until it was nothing but a square of grey. Some of the graphite rubbed off on his fingers and he left prints of it on the rest of his homework.

 

3\. Fernando has dreams when he’s a teenager. Dreams that he hates, because he can’t control them and because everyone has them (but not like his) and because they make him feel so good until he wakes up and starts hating himself.

Fernando has dreams when he’s awake, too. Dreams about winning tournaments and being famous, dreams that are more real than the ones he had when he was a kid because he can do it, he can do it, if only he trains harder and runs faster and scores more goals. If only he works himself into exhaustion every day, so he can get his call up, so he can sleep dreamlessly. If only.

 

4\. Here’s the thing: it doesn’t count if it’s with someone you don’t know. It doesn’t count if you’re drunk, if you’ll never see the guy again, if no one finds out. It doesn’t count if you’re on top. It doesn’t count if you don’t kiss on the lips.

Fernando’s making some changes to the rules as he goes, though. Looking at Sergio and laughing at his jokes is fine. Rooming with him is fucking amazing. Watching him come out of the shower, a towel white against the skin of his hips, isn’t ok, so Fernando does fifty extra push-ups every time he stares for too long. He does a lot of push-ups that summer.

Sticking fingers into himself and jerking off in the showers probably is against the rules, but Fernando walks around all day, feeling like his chest is about to explode, like his skin is too tight, his mind full of sunlight and Sergio’s smile. He does what he has to do, so that he won’t ever tell.

On the bus, he leans into Sergio’s shoulder and shares his iPod. He doesn’t know if that’s against the rules or not. Sergio laughs at some stupid joke he tells and throws an arm over his shoulder and Fernando can barely breathe. It’s World Cup, he tells himself. It doesn’t count.

 

5\. Fernando fucking hates the rain. He hates the rain and he hates being cold and he hates these fucking demanding fans. He hates being a symbol. He hates being responsible. He wants to yell to the press “I’m fucking tired and my whole body hurts and nothing is how I thought it would be, can you just leave me alone for one motherfucking second?” He wants to say, “I’ve kissed crests and flags and men I’ll never see again, it doesn’t mean I fucking love them, ok?” He thinks he might be about to cry.

He goes to practice and doesn’t say anything, but it’s ok since no one says anything to him either.


End file.
